32nd Armor Division
by BrimstoneVomit
Summary: Follow the revival of a decomissioned armored unit in their deployment on the grounds of infested Tarsonis. Watch this band of nobodies struggle, search and survive against Protoss and Zerg alike to emerge as the most renowned soldiers to step on Tarsonis
1. The First Mission, Phase 1

A deep, heavy knocking gradually pulled Trent out from hypersleep. His eyes, still crusted over from mucus and cold slumber, peeled open to find that his already full breaths have been fogging up the chamber class. A shadow moved around above him as he blinked and groaned, unrecognizable through the thick fog.

A sequence of blips sounded as the shadow outside punched in a deactivation code for the chamber. A loud squeal of pressure was released as the glass door latched open and slowly raised to reveal the intensely bright room. The figure looked down at him, smiling, though Trent's vision was not yet comfortably restored to notice.

"Well ain't you just like Sleeping Beauty," the familiar voice laughed. Trent groaned in tedious response, wanting to snap back. "I know, I know; you get grumpy when waking up. Your woman gave me a warning."

Trent cleared his throat and sought to speak, finding plenty of difficulty after barely coming out of hypersleep's effects. "C'mon Maynard, dim the lights already."

Maynard laughed heartily. "Could've figured you'd say that." He walked over to turn on a much less intense wall light and then proceeded to flip off the overhead. "There ya go, sunshine. See any better?"

Trent blinked a couple times and lifted his head to get a better sweep of the room. "Yeah, thanks bud." He flexed his elbows and knuckles and got a grip of the chamber's edges, hoisting himself up and swung one leg out before slipping, his crotch landing on the chamber edge.

"Damn dude, take it easy for a minute," Maynard cautioned. "Your muscles aren't nearly restored enough for free movement."

Ignoring his friend, Trent hoisted his pelvis up and slid his other leg out. He then sat along the edge in a slump, groaning and wiping his eyes. "Just glad I couldn't feel that."

"I can imagine. It hurt me just looking at it."

Trent chuckled, continuing to rub his eyes and shake his head as the tapping of footsteps came from outside the room and proceeding in.

"Ensign Feror," a foreign voice boomed in, "glad to see you're so willing to get up and moving so soon." Trent pivoted his waist and looked behind him, seeing a far superior officer staring at him with a snicker. "Though I see you don't look much better than the rest coming out now." A quiet laugh ensued between the three as Trent turned back. "See that he gets a proper breakfast and that he makes it to the conference room at Ten-Hundred hours, corporal."

"Sir!" Maynard replied with a salute. He lowered his hand as the officer turned away and headed out the door. Looking at Trent's weary state, he clapped him once on the shoulder. "Alright dude, time to get on with that wake-up call. Hope ya like synthetic eggs…"

An hour and a half later, Trent Feror sat himself in the conference room. A large array of soldiers, strategists and engineers surrounded him, all of them probably as aggravated as he was to be preparing for deployment so soon after hypersleep. The seats squeaked as everyone shifted around in anticipation of the officer's entry into the room. Soon enough, all anxious movements were halted as the capital ship's commanding officer came in and stepped up to the podium.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman," he announced clearly and loudly, startling some of the anticipating troops. "I realize that some of you may have been suffering from cold sleep hallucinations, so I'll be the first to clarify that, yes, we're still on the capital ship Subtle Nova and that I am still Colonel Meskein." A handful of the attendees giggled in response, particularly those that hadn't experienced the hallucinations.

"I'd like to start off this war conference with a small pep-talk, if you will," the colonel said before clearing his throat, obviously realizing that his terminology seemed startling. "We are now within Tarsonis' atmosphere and soon to reach our point of deployment. We have word that the Zerg presence is spreading on a massive scale and likely to reach the area in a matter of hours from their last detected site of hive clusters. It is also just recently known that a Protoss taskforce of a rather large proportion set down nearby and plan to scale their own eradication of the Zerg threat. We don't know of their potential allegiance to us, but we would be safe to assume that they will not regard us as friends.

"However, despite these harsh odds, I believe our force has the capacity to brave them all. After I reach my conclusion, you will see, in individual briefing rooms, that we have a detailed strategy of execution that foresees any odds we may face. Our sensors conclude that we have every element necessary to fend off the Protoss force and plow into the Zerg swarm until laying waste to their hive cluster. We, the coordinating officers, have complete trust in that our casualties will remain at a minimum from execution to extraction. You are all part of a well-organized force. You're not just soldiers, pilots or officers – you're all warriors. Each a link in perhaps the strongest chain the Terran dominion has known. And with this chain, we will choke the lifeblood out of this threat to our survival.

"We will have our moment of glory on this soil," the colonel continued with a proud crescendo, richening the blood of his audience. "We will take back this world from the supposed 'Queen of Blades'. And with it, we will reestablish our ranks as a sizeable threat to the Zerg entity, rebuilding this broken colony into a massive base of operation, one which will be impenetrable by Zerg and Protoss alike. And from here, we will know a future of victory for humanity."

Meskein's mouth gaped as though to continue, but he hindered himself and allowed his pride to absolve. Though not expecting applause, he was disappointed in the lack of response from the audience. Instead, he received a roomful of deeps stares, seemingly unknowing of how to respond. Perhaps the historical success rate against Zerg infestation weighs too heavily against his pride, the inhabitants of Subtle Nova knowing this fact very well. Still, some of them appear to have a seed of appreciation for the colonel's enthusiasm planted in them, Trent being one of them, though not quite as bewildered in expression.

"Thank you," the colonel then concluded, perhaps earlier than he planned. "I wish you all the best out there. My pride goes out to every one of you brave souls and retainers of the Terran dominion." His head bobbed down, perhaps as though in sheer realization of his brash speech, though the hopeful grin shown when lifting back up finished with his session with absolute power. "You may continue to your briefing rooms. Dismissed."

Trent soon found himself in a smaller conference room, the chairs no less noisy as in the previous. Crowded with an array of faces - some familiar, others new – he calmed himself in preparation for the upcoming briefing. A man of smaller stature that had been standing alongside the hologram board eventually stepped up to the podium not four feet in front of him.

"Okay folks, all settled in?" the small, pale man inquired, sounding much more bold than he looked. After receiving only silence, he assumed an affirmative answer and flipped a switch to activate a hologram visual reading a three-dimensional render of a siege tank with the title '32nd Armored Division'. "Very good, let's start with introductions. My name is Lieutenant Cole Gregor, I'll be your coordinating officer once we hit ground." He then peers over the crowd and points to a random person. "You there, mind telling us a little about yourself?"

The selected male soldier gave an inquisitive look. "Erm, want me to stand?"

"If you would, please," the lieutenant answered.

"A'ight, sounds like a plan," the random soldier mumbled as he lifted off his seat and panned his vision across the room. "Well…I'm Private Dustin Ferris. I've been in the service for well over two years now, serving as a station guard on Mar Sara Orbital #4 for the first year and a member of the 23rd Infantry Division up 'til now."

"Thanks soldier," Cole said with a nod, Dustin seating himself. Cole then peered deeper into the room and pointed to someone else. "How about you back there?" The female pointed to herself looking for confirmation, to which Cole nodded. "Yep, you ma'am."

"Okay…" she began while standing. "Uhm, my name's Cynthia Sanders. I'm a regular dropship pilot, occasionally a small-time engineer…erm, good with an SCV. I've been known to be better at exhibiting violent behavior in one rather than construction." A small roar of laughter rose in the room, Cole himself grinning in humor. "And…I guess that's it."

"Thank you, Cynthia," Cole nodded her down. "Okay, how about someone from the front here…" He sighted Trent and gave him a quick gesture. Trent sighed and stood up as though by habit. "I already know who ya are, just figured the rest should know," he clarified.

"Yep, sure thing." Trent forced out a cough to clear his throat before speaking. "Well, not a whole lot to say about me, really. My name's Trent Feror, I graduated from the Holshire Military Academy here on Tarsonis not quite eight months ago as an ensign and sent into a series of random clean-up operations, most of them just that – a bunch of debris left from an attack." He felt the eyes of everyone in the room steadily drawing into his story as he recollected a particularly unpleasant memory. "Once, though, we ran into a group of mutalisks that was scouring around in the refuge of Tarsonis Refueling Orbital #46. There wasn't that many, and our squad of wraiths took care of them easily enough, but they blind-sided our sanitation dropships and resulted in a good number of civilian deaths." He stopped to swallow and force another cough. "That was my team's only combat experience."

Trent proceeded to sit down on his own. "I guess this assault on Tarsonis can be considered payback for you, ensign," Cole summed up for himself.

"Yeah, you guess," Trent retorted despondently.

"Alright then," Cole started up. "There you have your commanding frontline officer, people. I expect you to show him full respect and keep in touch at all times. Now onto the briefing."

The hologram title blurred out and a series of graphic strategic diagrams showed with the '32nd Armored Division' logo docked at the top of the presentation. "As you all may have added up, you are officially part of the 32nd Armor Division, 1st Cavalry Troop. Now, some of you may already know that this division was only in force during the Battle of Braxis, though from beginning to end, it was a considerably long struggle. Shortly after the last stages of the battle and the team's extraction from the planet, the division was decommissioned. So you can all pride yourselves in being the first stage of revival for this little family, one that saw an epic amount of action in its first incarnation.

"So if I can have your undivided attention, I'll direct you toward our plan of action for the first stages." The visual zoomed into the first diagram in the series. "Here you see the drop-off points and the formation plans from there. Our team will be in control of six siege tanks with sixty-nine infantrymen in support. I've taken the liberty to organize you all into collective teams of approximately three tank operators and eight support troops. I'll give you all your team assignments upon exiting the room.

"Moving on from the formations," the lieutenant continued as the hologram zoomed out of the first diagram and into the second, "each team will make their advancement at a dividing angle from each other as to cover ground and gain more angles of defense should the Protoss consider us enemies. The eventual front should look like a semicircle, Feror's team being at the curve. As you can see here, we'll be coordinating with the 7th Cavalry Troop. Their Goliaths will deploy on both sides of our formation and act in wings to lure any hostiles into the semicircle, to which our siege artillery can cause substantial damage from their flanks and systematically diminish them using infantry small arms. Any Protoss enemy force left over can regroup and charge us, fall back and take defense or retreat and proceed towards the Zerg cluster location.

"Of course, it is our hope that the Protoss will not consider us enemies. In either the case of mutual allegiance or Protoss defeat, the 7th Cavalry Troop will advance and group in coordination with the 14th Infantry Company, to which they will leave us and head toward the Zerg." Trent abruptly clears his throat while the visual zooms out of the second diagram and into the third. "Here you see the cool-down phase of our role. Five dropships will descend with the sections to a makeshift bunker, supported by a small squad of wraiths. The four dropships carrying the bottom quarter sections will set down their payload along with a squad of infantry and engineers to secure the quarters and help down the top section. Our division will then take a staggering line formation with three teams on each side of the bunker. This is to secure our position and maintain a last line of defense for our construction teams that will be setting up a command center and tactical communication dish. This base should be finished some time after your bunker formation is complete and will radio Ensign Feror with confirmation on its completion. Ensign Feror will then radio the entire division with the frontline status and relay any orders that the new base may give.

"And this is the end of our current strategy. After the command array is established, the officers there will radio new orders to Ensign Feror as they become available and he will act on them appropriately, to which you all should follow promptly and precisely." The hologram zoomed out of the diagram and dissolved back into the large title logo. "Any questions?"

Trent then gave a gesture. Cole nodded in affirmation. "So who am I working with?"

"What's the matter, can't contain yourself until getting the assignments?" Cole laughed.

"Sure can't, sir."

Cole chuckled some more and looked through the charter on his podium. "Ah, here we are…Feror, you're with Sergeant Harry Graye, wherever he is…" A rather bloated character rose from his seat part-way and gave a verbal gesture for Trent to find him. "There, Graye will be the primary tank operator and engineer on your team. Now who else…"

Trent sulked back into his seat after eyeing the disappointing key member to his team, one missing a substantial amount of teeth and sounding as though having the IQ of an eggplant. "Beautiful," he mumbled to himself as Cole continued to give the roster. "I'm stuck with a hick sergeant…"

By noon, standard time, Trent entered the dropship launch bays. Cole entered just behind him and assigned everyone to their dropship. The siege tanks rolled out of their containment bays and lined up at their respective ships, the operators poking out of the front latches and watching the final briefing before they load onto the dropships.

Trent wandered into the mass and found his place amongst his team. He had nothing to say for his team, no pep-talk of his own. He just assumed take his position and prepare to fall in. A loud barrage of mechanical ambience engulfed his ears as he looked around and absorbed every detail of the behemoth launch bay. Everyone from his division had already scattered and found their place, as well as those of the coordinating squad and platoon. The goliaths were lined up four at a time and walked single-file onto their transports with infantry support receiving their final briefing and following directly behind.

"Okay folks," the lieutenant declared as he finally made it to Trent's team. "We're gonna have a clean load and swift exit once we hit dirt, got it? Everyone's gonna keep tight and in clear view of your team's commander at all times and take the initial formation on his mark. I want everyone to keep an ear open to your commander and make sure to affirm every task he gives you. We don't know what level of hostility to expect on touch-down and it's crucial to be able to act fast and as a unit should you drop into hostile grounds." He made a swift scan over the team, receiving confirming nods from each, Trent forcing a cough for his affirmation. "Alright people, let's pack it in, tank first."

Graye's head disappeared into the tank and immediately drove it up the dropship's ramp and inside. Trent's gaze wandered toward the lieutenant as the tank was being secured. Cole made his way towards a personal dropship, a group of four heavily-armed marines awaiting him at the ship's ramp.

An elbow dug into Trent's side. "Elitist shits must have this superiority complex about themselves, having their own ship and all," a brute voice said. "C'mon, we're packing in now."

Trent turned his attention away from Cole and followed the infantry towards the transport. This would be his first intentional combat drop, and considering the poignant losses of his sanitation team's only encounter, he was hardly prepared to take command of a team that had the persuasive belief that they wouldn't see another day beyond this one.

Last in line, he slowly stomped up the ramp and looked into the belly of the dropship, unable to hear the sound of his throat clearing over the obnoxious hum of the ship's engines.


	2. The First Mission, Phase 2

The ship soared along through a knot of minor turbulence, Trent firmly strapped back into his seat. The Arclite tank made a deep, metallic shuddering noise from behind the personnel partition wall. There were no windows or monitors for him to observe the outside. He had no knowledge of what his team would be dropped into and it scared him intimately. His discomfort was continuously sounded by the coughing and clearing of his esophagus, nearby marines becoming somewhat irritated.

"Christ, cap'n," the burly one from before complained, "you sick or some shit? Sounds like you got some Zerg in yer blood!"

"Yeah, sick," Trent replied, pounding the center of his chest. "Post-nasal, ya know?"

"That drip shit?" the burly one responded, clueless.

"Yeah," Trent answered, patting his chest and summoning up a cough to last him longer. "That 'drip shit'. And I'm an ensign, not a captain."

"Whatever you say, cap'n." Trent shook his head, more humored than frustrated. "Name's Robey Kilton, folks call me 'Killer' fer short," the burly soldier informed, a wide grin spreading between his cheeks.

"I'll stick with Robey for now, soldier."

"Fine by me," Robey agreed. "Of course once you see me in action, you'll be calling me 'Killer' with everyone else. Am I right, boys?" The other seated marines exchanged laughs and grins, knowing very well this grunt's reputation on the field. Robey then shrugged and faked an expression of modesty. "I gunned down my share of hydras, what can I say?"

Trent couldn't resist the desire to interject. "All from the security of a bunker, I'd wager."

The crowd roared over in laughter and brutal honesty. "Hot-damn, schoolboy's getting technical over here!" one of them hollered over the rest, booming with laughter. Even Robey nodded and accepted his defeat.

"Well hey, it's not like we weren't under siege," he belted out in defense. "There was even that time on the Orbital Station, there, wherever the hell it was. That ultralisk mauling the dome, c'mon, Hunter knows what I'm talking about!" He aggressively made a gesture towards the quietest of the crew, one who probably shared the team's urge for combat even less than Trent. "Bah, don't mind that kid. He's probably still traumatized by it. The little shit was right next to me when one of the tusks actually tore inside."

"Yeah kiddo, buck up," another obnoxious marine said while elbowing him in the arm. The quiet one just rubbed his arm and ignored the attention directed toward him. Trent only sat and felt sorry for the exploited rookie.

The crowd then cast aside the talks about the boy and started in with more war stories, mostly Robey talking about how the ultralisk was fended off. Trent tuned out the boastful tales, concentrating more on the boy, who was sitting closest to the cockpit entrance. He then noticed the co-pilot pivoting around to look back.

"Hey, calm your asses down!" she scolded everyone, barely heard amongst the wave of laughter and tall tales. She then turned around to pick up the intercom receiver, her voice blaring while speaking into it. "Come on folks, quiet down and stay sharp! We're coming up on our deployment zone. It's time for everyone to suit up and get pumped."

Trent looked up and tapped a rectangular yellow button just above him. A compartment opened up in front and below him with a pair of rails rising along the sides. Trent gripped the rails and lowered himself down into the chamber, subsequently fitting into the bottom half of a marine survival suit. He then tapped a button on the underside of the right rail and it descended along with the left, a platform at the bottom of the compartment rising until Trent stood at floor level. A compartment squarely above him opened next and the inside of the suit's top half was in clear view. He lifted his arms as the suit descended over him, his hands finding their way into the armholes and fitting snuggly as both halves met at his waist and latched tightly together. The suit's automated survival systems activated and commenced with diagnostics.

He then looked around and found his teammates to be suited up as well. They seemed quite surprised at him, even.

"Well how about that," Robey's first pal scoffed, "the sanitation man knows his combat routine."

"More than you know," Trent retorted amidst the supporting chuckles. "You don't go through military academy just to learn how to point at maps and shout into a radio all day, ya know."

The gloating marine nodded at the response, showing a little respect for a change. He sits back into his seat, everyone else quickly following suit.

Just then Maynard opens the latch on the personnel partition and steps in. "Hey Trent, my man," he said, surprised to find him in the same dropship. "We tank crew is all geared up and ready for deployment, they want you in there to see them out on touchdown."

"Now?" Trent moaned.

"Didn't the pilot tell ya? We've only got another minute or so before we go into hover and land."

Trent sighed and shook his head, obviously not enthusiastic with commencing the drop-off. He looked up to Maynard, ready to accept his call of duty, but Maynard didn't allow him the time before addressing the rest of the team. "Alright folks, I'm Corporal Lucas and I'll be your neighborhood-friendly morale officer for the duration of this drop."

Robey's first support released a single burst of laughter and looked quizzically at Maynard. "So we're in the need of a morale officer just to roll off a rickety dropship?"

"Secure your shit, Lorenza," Maynard snapped back. "We don't want you slippin' and tumblin' your way out into a Protoss-controlled field."

"Morale's key man, come on!" another rowdy marine added. "This dropper's name is 'Second Layer of Hell', after all."

"Yeah, there's morale for ya," Robey scoffed.

Maynard leaned in and knocked on Robey's visor. "Easy soldier, cut the shit and gear up." He then looked harshly at Trent. "Hey man, if I were you, I wouldn't keep the tankers waiting. Them sergeants can get awfully cranky sitting in a tin can without service."

Trent rolled his eyes and proceeded through the opening into the tank's bay. It was much louder towards the back as much more air was seeping in. Clearing his throat as deeply as possible, he proceeded alongside the tank and slapped down on the front latch. The lid flopped open and Harry's head popped out, facing the wrong direction at first and swiveling around to find his impatient commander.

"Well there ya are, commander," he said. "Ready to roll out?"

"You bet, sarge," Trent replied, less excited than the other.

Graye smiled and ducked back into the tank, leaving the lid open. Trent peered in after him, being butt in the helmet seconds later as Graye pops back out and hands him a pair of binoculars.

"Here, you'll be needing this," he offered.

"Thanks," Trent accepted quizzically while taking the binoculars in hand. "So what're these for besides looking through? 'Cause I got my own pair."

Graye smirked. "I expected as much," he laughed. "It's the targeting camera for the shock cannon on this baby. Ya hit that green button on th' right..." Trent looked over for the button. "The right...yeah, right thar. What that baby does is send us inside here a graphic display of what yer looking at with firing coordinates for artillery barrage. Latches right onto yer left arm dock."

Trent pressed the binoculars over the auxiliary dock and latched it down. "Cool, thanks."

"No prob'm," Graye said. "Just make sure you keep the crosshairs pointing on the ground where you want the shell to go, otherwise the cannon will aim over the horizon, if that's the case."

"Got it," Trent affirmed, patting on the tank, Graye nodding and sinking back inside, closing the latch over him. He then realized it would be a good time to test the communication array now that the crew was snug inside the tank. "Delta 3, Delta 3; How do I sound from in there?"

"Just fine, commander," answered a crew member besides Graye. "Ya only need to use the callsign once before relaying with military radio comms."

"Delta 3; Understood, just an old space comms habit," Trent relayed back. "Delta 3; Sit pretty and be ready to roll on out, should be about time."

"Roger that, commander."

Just then Maynard entered through the partition latch with a rifle in his hand, gesturing for Trent to catch before throwing. Trent looked over the weapon, having never used it before. "S-382 Combat Rifle, that one. They never taught you about them in that academy you went to?"

"It was a brief course on firearms," Trent replied, still inspecting the weapon. "Only weapons we used in basic training were the gauss and security pistol. Never laid hands on one of these before." He did recall the recognition class that taught him the specs on it, consequently pulling the slug latch and checking for a jam, then securing the ammo clip that attached on the underside of the barrel. "Got any more clips handy?"

"The basic five-clip provision is in your primary ammunition compartment along the waist," Maynard informed with a grin. "I went the extra mile and packed an extra two clips in your secondary ammo compartment, though I had to leave out a hand grenade to make room."

"S'alright," Trent assured, staring down the slope of the barrel to adjust to the weight and aiming reticle. "I don't see how shock damage would work very well against Zerg carapace or Protoss shields."

"Yep, that's why I took the liberty of replacing your standard frags with enhanced shrapnel charges," Maynard added with a thoughtful beam. "The heavier shrapnel should be able to pierce their defenses better, though I wouldn't want to stay unprotected when it goes off, even from a distance."

Trent smiled heartily. "You never stop looking out for me, do ya buddy?"

A loud screech sounded through the ship's intercom, followed by the co-pilot's anxious voice. "Alright folks, we're setting down in approximately thirty seconds. Infantrymen get your weapons ready and move into the back compartment with the tank." The partition began lifting and folding into the ceiling, allowing clear passage for the marines to shuffle in, forming two lines alongside the tank. "Only another twenty seconds now, get sharp!"

"Looks like this is where I can't look after ya anymore," Maynard said amidst the nervous shuffle of marines, almost nostalgic in the moment. "It's your turn to look after others now."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Trent retorted, flipping off the safety switch on his rifle.

"Ten seconds, ladies!" the co-pilot yelled nervously. The populace of the dropship immediately entered a zone of anxiety and irritability. Engagement was desired little for most, but if it came, they felt the wit to fight with every resource they had. "Brace yourselves, we're hitting dirt!"

"Everyone ready to make a difference today?!" Trent called fiercely to the rest of his team, to which he received a volley of sharp affirmations. They very much had a will to survive out there, at the least. A rough shudder within the ship sent everyone off balance for only an instant before the ramp dropped open and revealed the temperate battlefield before them. "Delta 3; Roll out!" The tank accelerated and crawled out of the transport's bay, Trent following alongside to scan across the landscape for noticeable hostility. Having only the dust from the dropships' combined descent to look through, he gave the infantrymen a signal to follow. "Come on guys. First two at the front while the rest take the flanks."

The dropship's ramp closed up behind the marines seconds after they jogged off to take their respective positions. "Delta 3; Hold your position here. Everyone else sit tight until we've got better visibility." The dropship lifted off, rotated and soared back toward the capital ship to prepare for the next phase. Dust flowed slowly downward, then whipped about as other ships followed suit. After all was silent and calm, Trent's team stared anxiously into the fog of war as it drifted back to the ground.

"What's that?" a front marine inquired, gesturing toward the front-left of the team.

Trent whipped out his standard binoculars and zoomed in toward the spotted silhouettes, waiting for the dust to further absolve as he tracked their steady movement. He finally had sight of four soldiers, built like Protoss, slowly approaching at an angle. As the dust cleared and allowed free visibility, the rest of the team saw the Zealots and became alarmed, clutching their weapons while being careful not to take aim until receiving the order.

"Hold your fire, team," Trent pacified, not wanting to start a needless conflict.

Trent's radio went crazy with the other teams' requests for orders. "Omega 1; Everyone stay calm, only fire upon my mark." He wandered out in front of the tank a few paces, singling himself out so in clear view of the moving Protoss, who noticeably all had their wrist blades active. One of them deactivated their blades and took lead for the other three, taking a more direct route toward Trent. "Omega 1; Everyone keep your arms down, we don't want them getting uppity if at all possible."

He then felt the urge to make visual communication with the Protoss units. Clearing his throat, having not noticed the build-up in his esophagus during the tension, he raised his left arm, binoculars still in hand. The Zealots did not acknowledge the gesture, they only kept on their course. Having held his hand up long enough to feel noticed, Trent let his arm drop and waited for them to make communication on their terms.

Yet just as his arm collapsed, he heard the sudden clutching of a rifle just before a burst of ammunition killed the silence and sped toward its destination, causing a series of energized blue ripples over the leading Zealot's figure. The group was alarmed, leader activating its blades again and starting its aggressive charge toward the commanding team.

Trent quickly checked the tank's position. "Delta 3, Delta 3; Rotate turret thirty degrees counter-clockwise. Fire at foremost aggressing target!"

"Roger that, commander," Graye affirmed, the turret taking immediate motion.

"Everyone else fire at will!"

The remainder of the team aimed and fired consecutive bursts at the hostile Zealots, who drew dangerously close. The tank's turret halted its rotation and panned down, waiting only a second before a shell was fired. The leader was struck by the intense impact, its shield warping frantically as it was thrown back and off its feet, the other three losing balance while gauss shells pinged relentlessly across their waning shields.

"Booyah, baby!" Graye cheered over the intercom. "This next one's for the kill..." The turret adjusted slightly and shot for the downed target. The targeted Protoss leaned up only soon enough to see the shell reach its destination, bypassing its shield altogether and striking home. A wisp of blue flame coiled into the air around the impact's explosion. "Target acquired, boss!"

But Trent couldn't share Graye's excitement as he noticed two Zealots closing in on the tank itself while the third directly for him. "Delta 3, Delta 3; Advance at 11 o'clock, ramming speed! You've got two hostiles incoming!"

"Oh shit, lookie there!" Graye responded, more enthusiastic than alarmed.

The tank kicked off and directed itself directly toward the charging Protoss while Trent took careful aim toward his own target, whose shield consistently rippled from scattered gauss fire. He shot one slug, his aggressor's shield bending and acting erratically as the impact slowed its movement. The two other Zealots stood firm side by side and prepared for the tank's collision. Both Protoss were rammed hard by the tank's front, one managing to grip hold of the top. However the unfortunate other was knocked back and instantly found itself being run over, its shield the only thing between the tank's heavy tracks and its body, which swiftly bent and dissolved to allow the tracks to collapse upon the vulnerable enemy.

"Delta 3, Delta 3;" Trent called just before taking another aimed shot to slow his own target's progression. "You've got one on your hull, run circles and fend off using small arms!"

Having lost his focus on his enemy, he made ready to aim again only to find a blaring wrist blade arcing down toward his left shoulder. Trent lifted his left arm in reaction, the blade slicing cleanly through the arclite targeting binoculars and partially into his suit's armor before he swung his arm around to throw the blade off target. The other blade made its preparation to arc down as well, Trent's other arm rising to meet it by the wrist, holding it in place. A marine who ran forth and could fire from an angle took careful aim and shot a burst into the Zealot's side. The shield rippled and bent in failing spasms in front of Trent's face, ultimately ceasing and dissolving into nothing. Seeing his opening, Trent pushed his weight into the enemy and forced it away. The Zealot swiped a fist and knocked him over as it recoiled. Trent found an opening only soon enough to point his rifle toward the enemy's stomach and shoot as it came down on him. The slug penetrated and killed its target, a swirl of blue flame unraveling from the original form, leaving only the Zealot's cuffs to plop along each side of Trent's body.

Graye handed the tank's navigator a security pistol while the driver pulled donuts across the terrain. "Now, ya get out there and shoot that shit off, ya hear?!" he demanded.

"Yes sarge!" the navigator confirmed, though evidentially uneasy.

He pounded open the front latch and paused to take a deep breath. Poking his head out and readying the pistol, he found the hostile holding its place with both arms crossed on the tank's hull. He pointed the pistol and fired recklessly, each bullet pinging off the rippling plasma shield. Upon the navigator running out of ammo and starting to reload, the Zealot gripped as tightly as it could with one arm and flailed the other about with its blade whipping and scraping the tank's hull in an attempt to reach the navigator. Despite the shock of being attacked, he secured the fresh clip and fired wildly at his target again. The Zealot drove its blade directly into the hull to manage a grip whilst its shield bending and waning from the continuous fire. Pulling itself up with the newly-established grip, the frightened navigator had already expended the second clip and loaded in a third. He took only three more shots until the shield phased and dissipated completely, halting in hopeful surprise and giving the enemy a chance to take one good swing at him. The navigator panicked and ducked inside, the latch being sliced off in his place.

"...Delta 3; Be prepared to straighten course on my order," the commander's voice buzzed throughout the inside of the tank.

"What the hell's he planning?" the driver thought aloud, squirming in reflex to a phase blade tearing into the armor near him.

"Don't matter!" Graye scolded. "Just be ready to do what he says." He pulled over the navigator, who was still quite shaken. "What happened up there?! Didn't ya at least kill its shield?"

"Yeah, yeah!" the panicking one nodded frantically.

"A'ight, we got that much outta him at least," Graye said in near relief.

"...Delta 3; Straighten your course now!" Trent's voiced boomed in.

The driver instantly acted. The vehicle's weight leaned as its direction abruptly straightened. "The hell?" he said quizzically while inspecting his monitor. "He's got us heading straight toward the team."

"Good deal," Graye remarked. "Delta 1; The bugger's shield is dead, ya should get a clear shot 'nless it recharges on the way."

"Delta 3, Delta 3; Roger that, be ready to stop on my mark," Trent instructed while waiting for the armored vehicle to get close enough. "Come on, come on, just a little closer..." The team started clearing out of the tank's path while Trent waited contently, finally satisfied with its distance. "Delta 3, Delta 3; Brake hard!"

The tank's tracks forced a full stop, skidding across the dirt until stopping entirely, throwing the Protoss off the hull and soaring out in front of the vehicle. Landing on its back and sliding along the ground until settled, the Zealot shook out its confusion and leaned up to see a very serious marine pointing his rifle at its face. A deep, powerful gunshot sounded and the projectile hit the barely recharged shield, canceling it and striking home in the enemy's head. A final puff of blue flame coiled and dissolved into the air.

Silence remained. Trent looked over the regrouping marines, seeming irritated. "Anyone wanna take responsibility for what just happened?" Everyone stepped aside and allowed a clear path of sight toward Robey, who in turn made an expression of guilt. The commander, not surprised in the least, sighed and shook his head, forcing a cough before stepping towards the guilty person.

"You know," he started quietly, though infuriated, "it really pains me that we're all in these suits, 'cause I'd LOVE to beat in that Portrait of a Fuckwit you call a face!" Silence returned after his cursing. Feeling sore and disgusted, Trent looked away from everyone and proceeded toward the tank. "Okay, just...stay grouped and keep an eye out for more. I'll be checking on Sergeant Graye's crew."

Harry poked his head out of the vehicle, watching Trent approaching and noticing his sour mood. "Someone shot at 'em," he assumed as the commander came close enough to hear.

Trent exhaled, forced a cough and leaned against the tank's track. "I was damn near ready to point my gun at him and unload the rest of that clip," he said, steadily calming himself and leaning his rifle next to him on the track. "I give one specific order to not fire until I say so and he breaks off whatever chance we have at gaining an ally. Now not only do we not have an ally, we've probably got ourselves a powerful enemy to deal with before the Zerg."

"I hear that," Graye agreed pointedly. "But no sense in killing 'im now when there's nothing else to fuck up, eh?"

"Yeah, we're gonna want every hand we got."

Trent's radio abruptly sounded off with a wide array of static, ultimately tuning into a fairly familiar voice. "Ensign Feror, do you read me? This is Theta 4, Lieutenant Cole Gregor."

Trent just blinked and forced another cough, rather uncaring of the politics behind the mission at this point. "Theta 4; This is Ensign Feror, and yes I read you."

"Awesome, just got a makeshift radio bunker set up a few kilometers behind your line."

"Theta 4; Sounds good."

"Yeah, anyway, I heard a ruckus at first, I take it you saw some action already?"

"Theta 4; Yes, four Protoss Zealot infantry sighted and defeated."

"Damn, I didn't think they'd attempt something so suicidal..." Trent sighed and shook his head during Cole's pause. "What's the damage? Any casualties?"

He looked up to Graye. "Nah, we're all good in here," the sergeant reported.

"Theta 4; Negative, no casualties and minimal damage to my team's tank," Trent informed.

"Good news, good news," Cole commented with optimism. "You'll probably be grateful for that, 'cause my sensor guy is telling me that the Protoss taskforce is reorganizing and looks like it has its sights set on you."

A sea of mixed negative emotions drowned out Trent's logical thought. He wasn't sure what to feel or why. Up became down and black bled into white. The only discernable thought pattern was that he wanted to survive, and he knew it wasn't happening without a good chance of death. Perhaps this is the pre-battle adrenaline that he never experienced in the clean-up crew, he figured.

"Theta 4;" he unthinkingly prompts, clearing his thoughts and throat for the only sentence that could come to mind. "Yeah, figured as much."


End file.
